


in ecstatic motion

by theappleppielifestyle



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, No Porn, but TALKING HAPPENS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:49:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theappleppielifestyle/pseuds/theappleppielifestyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony accidentally steals a stranger's shopping cart, and they start a conversation that turns into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It might be because it’s quarter to midnight on a Thursday and Tony hasn’t slept for at least a day, but Tony spends a good eight minutes staring blearily at the rows of cereal.

He usually doesn’t go shopping. He usually orders takeout, because that’s what takeout was invented for and god knows he won’t run out of money anytime soon, but Pepper is on holiday and Rhodey refuses to take a plane all the way to New York just to do Tony’s shopping, so Tony made his way to a supermarket and now he’s contemplating cereal choices.

 _Who the fuck_ , Tony thinks distantly,  _needs this much cereal_.

Seriously. Buying this much cereal might actually put a dent in his fortune.

He squints at a cereal box. He’s lost count of how many he’s considered by now.  _Fruity crunch_ , the box promises. Fuck it. Tony could go for a fruity crunch.

He throws it in his cart and his halfway down the aisle, aiming for the milk section because he just remembered he doesn’t have milk to go with the cereal that this whole journey was centred around, when he hears a voice say, “Hey,” and a guy appears next to the cart, one hand around the side of it.

Tony frowns at him. “What the hell-“

"You, ah, have my cart," the guy says, trying for a smile, which Tony has to admit, is nice. It is pretty late, too late for sane people to shop on a weekday, yet the supermarket is filled. The wonders of New York, Tony supposes.

Tony examines the contents of his cart, and is surprised to discover that apart from his fruity crunch cereal, none of the rest of the food is his. He lets go, taking a step away from it. “Oh,” he says. He looks up at the guy, who is shuffling.

"Sorry," Tony says. He rubs at his forehead. "I haven’t- I’m really tired."

"It’s late," the guy shrugs, like everyone he knows has taken a shopping cart from an innocent stranger. "I’m Steve."

Tony blinks. Does he look so run-down that people don’t recognize him? “Tony,” he says, and takes the guy- Steve’s- hand when he offers it.

He has a firm grip, his wide fingers calloused, and for a second Tony wonders what that hand would look like wrapped around his cock. He banishes the thought as soon as it appears- he’s just tired enough to get a boner in a supermarket after stealing a guy’s cart, and he isn’t about to let that happen.

"I don’t make a habit out of stealing people’s carts," Tony hears himself saying, and winces. "Like, it was an accident. Obviously. I wasn’t trying to hijack your," he waves at the food in Steve’s cart and lands on, "jam. Is that strawberry?"

"Yeah," Steve says after a second, and Tony realizes everything he’s saying is probably coming off really creepy. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Steve cuts him off.

"What brings you here? This late, I mean."

"Cereal," Tony says, and reaches for the box he had chucked in Steve’s cart, rattling the cereal box. "And milk. Because it turns out I don’t have either. And you? What brings a nice guy like you to the supermarket at midnight?"

Steve pauses, his eyes going over the food in his cart- pretty basic stuff, Tony notes. Bread, margarine, bananas, some lamb chops, frozen peas. And strawberry jam, of course. 

"Can’t sleep," Steve admits eventually, and Tony gets the feeling there’s a bigger story there if he pried deeper. But he isn’t sure he’s welcome, so he just nods.

Then he screws it all up with his big mouth, because Tony Stark has never known where to stop, never really got taught how. “Any particular reason? Artistic insomniac? Neighbours dogs’ barking keep you up?”

Steve startles, and Tony resists the urge to hit himself on the head with his own stupid cereal box.

"I was in the army," Steve says, like he’s surprised the words are coming out of his mouth. "And after, I couldn’t. Uh. Yeah. Sleeping’s been hard."

"That sucks," is the only thing Tony can think of, and Steve shrugs again. He’s got big shoulders to go with the big hands.

"But the artistic insomniac thing kind of hits the target, too," Steve says, with a hint of a smile that Tony is innately charmed by. He wants to drag that smile out, turn it into a grin.

"Yeah? You do- art things?" Tony waves his cereal box. "You’re an artist?"

"Had to do something after I came back," Steve says. "It pays the bills."

"You any good?"

"I’m okay," Steve says after a moment, and Tony snorts.

"Sure, that’s probably what Picasso said.  _Oh, I’m okay, I guess_.”

"Pretty sure I’m not up to Picasso grade," Steve says, stuffing his hands in his pockets, that reluctant smile still twitching. 

 _To hell with it,_  Tony thinks.  _I’m standing in the cereal aisle, which never ends, it’s midnight and I’m sleep-deprived. Lets go be stupid_.

"I could be the judge of that," he says, and Steve’s eyebrows raise. "I mean, I’ve seen some Picasso. His real works, not a picture on the internet. I have a couple, even."

"You- what?"

"Picasso," Tony says. "I have a few of his paintings."

Steve stares. He blinks once. “You have,” he says, slow, “a few of paintings. By Picasso.”

Tony grins. “Yep.”

“ _The_  Picasso.”

"The very same."

"Pablo Picasso."

"That’s the one."

Another blink. Two more. “Why,” Steve says, struggling for it.

Tony makes a face. “My assistant says they class up the place. Apparently I don’t do that enough with my presence.”

Steve gives him a once-over, and Tony guesses what he sees- the sweatpants with worn grease stains, the oversized hoodie, the scruffy sneakers.

"I clean up real nice," Tony promises, his grin turning teasing.

"I bet," Steve says, and then shakes his head like he’s clearing it. "I, uh. Not, uh." He clears his throat. "You said something about, about seeing the paintings?"

"I did. I said I could compare your art to Picasso’s, if you’re up for it."

"I’m gonna turn up lacking," Steve says, his voice coming out strangled, but still with that little smile, like he can’t believe he’s smiling at all. He suits it, that smile. 

"Like I said," Tony says. "I’ll be the judge of that. So, do you have some of your art on you right now, or-"

"It’s back at my apartment."

"Lead the way," Tony says. Then he remembers the cart, and HIS cart a few meters back from them, and says, "Uh."

"I can shop later," Steve says. "This, this is- not important. Picasso is important. Picasso is always important."

"Art junkie?"

"I’m an artist, it kind of comes with the job."

"You’d love my assistant," Tony sighs. 

They start walking for the exit, leaving their carts behind, making their way through the crowd that by all rights shouldn’t be here right now, and emerge into the muggy winter air. 

"What kind of stuff do you paint?"

"Who says I paint?"

Tony pulls his hoodie up against the wind. “You look like a painter.”

"What do painters look like?"

"Hot blondes," Tony tosses out, and is immensely gratified when Steve chokes on a laugh. 

Steve’s cheek twitches against it. “I paint, uh. Lots of stuff.”

"Yeah? Landscapes, people, bowls of fruit-"

"Memories, mostly," Steve says, and they both go quiet for a few seconds, eyes on the footpath and each other. The wind cuts at their clothes, making them shiver. 

"I sketch, too," Steve offers, huddling into his sweatshirt.

"Lots of stuff?"

"Lots," Steve agrees. "Have to be in a different mood to paint. It’s more permanent. You can rub out a sketch."

"Never really thought about it," Tony admits. He pauses. "Ever do nudes?"

That gets a fully fledged laugh, and Tony thinks of being drunk for the first time, that looseness, how his head spun, his fingers fuzzy with sensation. 

"A couple, over the years," Steve chuckles. "And they don’t call them nudes."

"But there are naked people being drawn, yes?"

"Or painted," Steve says. "But yes, there are."

Tony hums.

"We’re almost at my apartment," Steve says, and points. "Just up there."

Tony looks. It’s a small thing, but he wasn’t expecting much else. 

Steve leads him up, and Tony grimaces at the steps, how easy it would be to slip and slam down every metal panel until you hit the ground, especially in this weather.

He’s all too relieved when he makes it into Steve’s apartment with all his limbs unsmashed. 

"It’s not much," Steve remarks as he closes the door behind Tony. "Especially to a guy who owns a couple of Picassos."

"It’s homey," Tony shrugs. "Sometimes homey’s better than big."

Steve gives him a look at that, something Tony can’t identify. Then he clears his throat again and says, “Uh, I have a studio? But it’s getting cleaned, so all my stuff is in my bedroom for now.”

Tony doesn’t  _think_  he’s being flirted with, but hell, he’s been wrong before. “Lead the way.”

The apartment is cramped, and Steve has to jiggle the doorknob to make his bedroom door open, but then it’s swinging open and Tony says, “Shit, wow.”

Steve huffs a laugh, and Tony brushes past him to examine the rest, which are propped up on his bed, against the walls, on a chair next to a desk.

Steve is- Steve’s good, he’s more than good, Tony knows he’s seen some of these around when he’s been dragged around a charity event, remembers Pepper going on about one or two of them. Tony hadn’t paid attention then, but he’s going to have to call her up about them, ask if she remembers, because- shit,  _wow_.

It’s the colours, really. The combinations, the contrast between blood and battlefield and sky in one, between pearls and an ageing hand in another. A man at a bar, gazing into a whiskey glass. In this one, the lines are blurred, the colours bright, giving it a hazy, ghostly feel. 

 _Memories_ , Steve had said, and Tony can almost feel them, coasting past his eyes as he goes over painting after painting, sketch after sketch.

Steve is fiddling with his sleeves when Tony turns to him, and immediately straightens when he catches Tony’s eyes on him.

"You’re  _good_ ,” Tony says honestly. “Picasso can go stick his paintings up his ass.”

"Hey, don’t blaspheme," Steve says weakly, his shoulders looser than they were when they were outside the apartment, his fingers tight in his sleeve. "Picasso did great things for the art industry."

"I’m sure he did," Tony murmurs, eyes catching on a sunset over a bloody rooftop, a pair of hands that don’t belong to Steve, a boy with his head tipped back, his eyes creasing in laughter.

"You’re good," Tony says again, hoarser this time. He swallows. This is- intimate in a way that Tony doesn’t do, tries actively to avoid. This is Steve letting Tony through a chink in the armour, someone who is practically a stranger, and Tony wonders if Steve has anyone else who comes in here and looks around and soaks it all in.

When Tony looks at Steve again, he’s taken a few steps towards Tony. He’s hesitant about it, flighty, and he swallows a few times before he says, “About Picasso.”

Tony nods, and at some point he’s stepped closer. He can see every single one of Steve’s lashes, the pale blush that has spread over Steve’s cheeks, barely setting in.

"I was wondering if we could do that later," Steve breathes, and Tony thinks he makes a noise of agreement and then he’s pulling Steve in, their mouths meeting with a warmth that makes Tony groan. He’s sure he hasn’t kissed another mouth as warm as this.

Steve’s mouth gives under his, his lips parting so he can get his tongue in Tony’s mouth, his hands coming up to cup Tony’s head and cradle him closer. “Shit,” he mutters when they draw apart for breath, and Tony gasp-laughs.

"When you said later, did you mean-"

"Tomorrow," Steve nods, his fingers playing idly with Tony’s hair as he talks. "I’ll make you cereal."

"Best shopping trip ever," Tony says, and Steve actually grins before bringing their mouths together this time.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve Rogers wakes up to the sound of someone snoring next to his ear. 

It's not loud, thank god. It's soft, only a bit heavier than breathing, and Steve can't help but wonder why he didn't wake up when he's been waking up when a cat yowls in the distance, or a siren wails two blocks away.

He's been waking up at the slightest provocation ever since he went home after Afghanistan, but he's had someone snoring near his ear the entire night and somehow he's had the best sleep he's had in months.

Steve blinks, twists his head just enough so he can see the sleeping face of the guy he's pretty sure is Tony Stark, much more recognizable now than he was in the hoodie and sweatpants in the cereal aisle. 

Slowly, Steve gets his phone from off the bedside table and snaps a photo. He sends it to Sam with the caption,  _don't freak out but is this tony stark from the tv?_

He eases himself out of bed, careful to pad quietly to his clothes and then to the door as he pulls them on, and closes the door behind him with barely a creak. He only pauses for a few seconds before it to stare at the man in his bed, the sheets tugged up to his chest, his hair wrecked with bed-head.

It's a good look for Steve's bed, having someone in it who isn't Steve. He could get used to this sight, even if all Tony does after this is thank Steve for a good night and leave.

He tries not to dwell on it as he makes his way into the kitchen. Tony Stark did this all the time, apparently, before his kidnapping. Supermodels trailed from Stark Mansion morning after morning for however many years. 

It had stopped, after he got back. Or at least that's what the papers have said from what Steve has flicked over. Tony Stark, he's learned, is like Kim Kardashian- it's impossible to live in New York and not know about them, even for someone who gets out as much as Steve, which is to say he hardly leaves the house.

Steve roots around in the back of his cupboard and emerges with a box that promises a fruity crunch, like the one Tony had rattled at him. He decides to leave the milk next to the bowl and spoon, because he doesn't know if Tony gets iffy about how much milk he likes to add.

His phone buzzes, and he gets it out to see it's from Sam. He grins as he reads the capslock-infested screaming as Sam asked him what happened, why did it happen, where is Stark now, also he's going to give Steve the mother of all fistbumps when he sees him.

Steve sends back:  _I met a cute guy in the cereal aisle. He invited me to see his Picassos in exchange for seeing my artwork. We never made it to the Picassos, he's in my bed rn. And I'm looking forward to the fistbump._

His phone buzzes less than thirty seconds after he sends it, and Sam has sent back a string of exclamation points.

"Hey," says a voice from the door, and Steve looks up to see Tony in the same sweatpants and hoodie he had been wearing last night. He's staring at the table with the cereal on it.

"I did promise," Steve says, trying to sound casual about it. What if Tony just wanted to leave, breakfast be damned? God knows how many morning-afters this man has faced.

Tony stares some more, eyebrows set in vague surprise. "You- even got the right cereal. Huh. Thanks."

"No problem," Steve says, his palms sweating like crazy as he sits down in his own chair with his toast. 

Tony smiles at him as he sits down to eat his cereal, and if Steve didn't know any better, he'd say Tony was nervous. He tries not to be a creeper and watch Tony pour his milk, instead focusing on eating the toast in front of him. It goes down his throat in a hard lump. 

When his phone buzzes again, Steve doesn't answer it. Sam can yell at him later about landing an ex-arms dealer.

Steve knew it'd be awkward, but it- actually isn't as bad as he expected. Then again, Steve has absolutely no idea what to do after what happened last night. He hasn't done anything like that, ever- has never picked up a stranger in the supermarket, has never had anyone affect him with the strange pull that Tony does.

 _I feel like I know him_ , Steve finds himself thinking, and even with clothes on, Steve feels naked. He had shown Tony the paintings he hasn't even showed his agent yet, the ones that make his voice catch as the memory hits him.

He guesses Tony feels kind of naked as well, though. Last night, when they had been stumbling to Steve's bed, pulling off each other's clothes, Tony had mumbled into his mouth that he hasn't done this in a while. Years, in fact. And that Steve might be freaked out a bit by his war wounds from the whole kidnapping thing.

Steve had been gentle when he shucked off Tony's hoodie, laying Tony out on the bed to kiss the scars that criss-crossed over Tony's heart.

"Jesus," Tony had said, sounding  _wrecked_ , and then he had yanked Steve back up to bite down hard on his bottom lip and suck it into his mouth. 

Steve shakes the memory off, his bare feet cold on his apartment floor, looking down at his plate. Crumbs drop as he bites into his toast.

"I promised Picasso," Tony says, and Steve looks up.

"You don't- have to," he says, hating the words even as he says them- he wants to follow Tony everywhere, wants to keep Tony here and lay him out on Steve's bed again, wants to undress him slowly, the way he didn't get to last night.

Tony shrugs. "I'd like to," he says, smiling a smile that Steve has never seen on the television. "After all, you followed through on the paintings. And the cereal. It even has a fruity crunch."

"Is it good?"

"Actually it's horrible, I'm thankful I didn't get around to buying it," Tony says, and Steve barks out a laugh before can stop himself.

"Yeah, I thought so, too, that's why it was at the back of my cupboard."

"Good man," Tony says, and there's a silence as they both resume chewing. 

When they're both finished, Tony puts his spoon down. "So," he says. "Picasso?"

"Lead the way," Steve says, and Tony grins.

 

 

 

 

They take a cab, and Tony apologizes about twelve times for not having cash on him.

"You're the struggling artist," he sighs. "I should be the one paying, I could have gotten a jet to fly us to my place. A jet, Steve."

"I can cope with paying the cab fare," Steve says, trying not to let on how much he likes the sound of his name in Tony's mouth. "You can get the next one."

It slips out, and Steve stiffens. He was always bad at this, always bad at holding back, always bad at expressing himself in a way that didn't make him look like an idiot-

But Tony's hand finds his, fingers interlocking hesitantly, and Steve looks over at him. Mid-morning light filters through the window of the cab, and Steve has to suck in a breath against the urge to get a pen and paper at the sight of the other man.

"I can get the next one," Tony says, voice gentle, and Steve squeezes his hand.

 

 

 

 

They stop for coffee, and the barista squints at Tony for a full ten seconds as she takes his order. Steve stands behind him, hands in his pockets, and when the barista calls out, "John Smith," he goes and gets his coffee.

"John Smith," Steve says as they exit the Starbucks, and Tony shrugs.

"It's easier," he says, and Steve doesn't doubt it.

Tony apologizes some more when they go down to the garage, and then laughs at Steve's scandalized expression.

"You can't keep original Picassos in a  _garage_ ," Steve despairs, and Tony chuckles some more and kisses his forehead.

"God, you're cute when you're offended," Tony tells him, and Steve schools his face into the face of someone who is not surprised at a kiss.

Tony switches the lights on and there they are, there are three original paintings by Pablo Picasso close enough for Steve to reach out and touch. He just- absorbs for a second, takes a moment to reflect on how he never thought he'd get the chance to be in the presence of one.

"Are you going to cry," Tony asks, and Steve huffs at the genuine concern in his voice.

"I'm not going to cry," Steve says, and okay, maybe he's a little hoarse. It's the morning. Probably. The sun had looked pretty high in the sky when they got out of the cab in front of Tony's place.

"I still think yours is better," Tony says after a minute has passed, and Steve  _has_  to laugh at that, come on.

"I'm taking that with a grain of salt," Steve says, and looks over at him. "You're not an art guy."

"I'm not an art guy, but your paintings are better than," Tony waves a hand, "these Mr-Potato heads."

"It's  _art_ , Tony. It's Picasso!"

"Mr Potato heads," Tony repeats, tilting his head at the paintings and making a face. Steve can't deal with how adorable it is, so he huffs again and wraps an arm around Tony, dragging him so they're side by side. 

"Appreciate the art, Tony," Steve says, and Tony's nose skims his cheek when Tony twists his head to look at him.

Steve startles at the feeling of lips on his neck, but then Tony's sucking at it and Steve can't help but arch voluntarily to give Tony more access. "Tony."

"I'm appreciating the art," Tony murmurs into his neck, and kisses it once every few words. "Just not the one you are."

"Tony," Steve says, half exasperated and half full of that all-consuming, can't-get-enough blur that had ignited between them last night. He angles his head, hoping for a proper kiss, and Tony relents and shifts up from Steve's neck to his mouth.

There's a soft, contented sigh, like, _fuck, finally_ , and Steve doesn't know which one of them it was from, but he agrees entirely. He parts Tony's lips with his tongue, kneads at the nape of his neck with his fingers in the way Tony seemed to like last night when they were kissing like this.

"Totally better than Picasso-Potato-Head," Tony says into his mouth, breathy, and Steve thinks he should probably care enough to pull back and give Tony a stern look. Maybe later.

Steve brushes his fingers under the hem of Tony's hoodie, and just like last night, he's met with bare skin. At the touch of Steve's fingers under the hoodie, Tony gives an encouraging moan and pushes closer, his arms tightening around Steve's neck.

"God, can I paint you," Steve pants into Tony's mouth, unaware he's saying it until he's already said it, and Tony hardly even pauses.

"Do we have to stop," Tony says, and his mouth is on Steve's neck again, sucking another mark into it to go with the one from last night.

He yelps when Steve grabs his thighs and hitches him up, settling Tony's legs around his waist.

"I can do it later," Steve promises. "Where's-"

"I have literally like a hundred bedrooms, just pick the closest one up the stairs, pick up the pace, Steve," Tony says, and Steve nods and heads for the door.

 

 

 

 

After, Tony takes a refill pad and paper- "For late night equations," Tony tells him- and gives them to Steve.

Steve contents himself with sketching Tony, laid out in the guest bed, hickies on his neck, one showing over the curve of his hip as he lies on his stomach.

"Don't make the Titanic joke," Steve tells him, pencilling the line of Tony's spine. "You're better than that."

Tony smirks into the pillow. "No promises."


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the day goes like this:

Steve does a few sketches of Tony, until he’s familiarized himself with Tony’s body with a pencil instead of just with his hands, and then he goes ahead and reacquaints his hands (and the rest of him) with Tony’s body again, because there’s only so much sketching Steve can take until he has to reach out and kiss that look off Tony’s face.

They stay in bed, mostly, and Steve doesn’t notice the time passing due to Tony’s scarily technological curtains that can make it seem like any time he wants. Eventually their stomachs start being loud enough that they notice, and Steve says, “We could go to the supermarket again, see if our carts are still there. The frozen peas are probably thawed by now.”

“I’m so sorry for pulling you away from your previously-frozen peas,” Tony sighs, his chest falling and rising rapidly from round- three? four? Steve’s having trouble keeping track, and he’s loving it.

Steve gives him a peck that turns into more than a peck, and they make out again for a while until Steve’s stomach makes a sound like it’s about to charge, and Tony starts laughing into Steve’s mouth.

“We can always pick up where we left off later,” Tony suggests, and Steve kisses his nose and asks, “Takeout?”

“Now you’re speaking my language, Steve,” Tony says, and is about to distract Steve from getting takeout by dragging him in again for another kiss when they both startle at Tony’s phone ringing.

“You should get that,” Steve says. “You kind of went off the grid after your supermarket trip. They might think you got kidnapped again.”

Tony makes a noise, sighs, “Wouldn’t want that,” and gets out of bed to rummage through his sweatpants, which are lying on a heap on the ground. He comes out triumphant, beaming at Steve who gives him a doofy thumbs-up back.

“Hello?”

“Tony,” Pepper says, and Tony wonders distantly how many meetings he’s missed. Enough to give her another raise, that’s for sure. “Where the hell are you?”

Tony checks. He has eighteen missed calls and thirty-two missed texts. Oops. Definitely another raise.

“I’m home, Pepper-pot, don’t worry,” Tony says, sitting back on the edge of the bed. He tries not to let the grin seep into his voice when Steve slides a hand over his chest, kissing his neck. “Totally fine over here, don’t bother coming around.”

There’s a silence on the other end of the phone that Tony doesn’t particularly like. “Tony, are you with someone?”

“You mean with someone, or WITH someone?”

“You agreed to stop having sex while on the phone to me, I remember this, you signed a form about it, it was the early 2000s, you shouldn’t have forgotten yet.”

“I remember,” Tony croaks, leaning his head sideways so Steve can get a better angle to suck on his neck. He’s going to look like a leper when he finally resurfaces from this room. He’s kind of afraid to see his reflection. “Is there a point to this call, my lovely Pepper-pot?”

Steve pauses, his lips stilling on Tony’s neck, and Tony gives Steve a look that is probably more offended than he means it to be and mouths,  _assistant_.

_Oh_ , Steve mouths back, nodding, and Tony gestures at his neck.

_Continue_ , he mouths, and Steve huffs a laugh and does.

“I was checking to see you haven’t locked yourself in the workshop for three days again,” Pepper sighs. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“A-okay, Pep.”

“Good to hear it, Mr. Stark. Now, back to the last question-”

“I’m not WITH someone at the moment, but there was definite WITH-ness happening ten minutes ago. He’s still here, and he can hear you, judging from his proximity to the phone.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Pepper says, in a pleasantly exasperated voice, but Tony’s talking over her, handing Steve the phone and telling him to say hi.

Steve eyes the phone like it’s a bomb about to go off, looking like he’s much rather keep sucking on Tony’s neck, but Tony gestures encouragingly at it until Steve puts it to his ear and says, cautiously, “Hello?”

“Hello,” Pepper says, after a flustered pause. “I’m Virginia Potts, Mr. Stark’s assistant. Might I know the name of the very first fling Tony Stark has ever put on the phone to me?”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Potts,” Steve says, unsure at how to respond to the other part and feeling strange about talking to her while wearing only a sheet. “Steve. My name, I mean. Is Steve. Rogers. Steve Rogers is my name.”

Tony is shaking with the giggles he’s holding back, and Steve shoves him lightly so Tony rocks with the motion and then sways right back into Steve’s shoulder. Shut up, he mouths.

“Steve Rogers,” she repeats, sounding doubtful and something else Steve can’t identify. “You don’t mean Steve Rogers, the artist? In Brooklyn?”

“That’s me,” Steve says, surprised. “Unless there’s another artist named Steve Rogers who lives in Brooklyn.”

“I- no, there isn’t, it’s just you,” Pepper says, stammering a little. “You’re- oh my gosh, I love your work, it’s stunning.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, shrugging helplessly when Tony frowns at him questioningly.  _She likes my work_ ,he mouths, and Tony says, “Oh yeah, shit,” and Steve elbows him.

“I’m always trying to get Tony to buy one of yours for the gallery,” Pepper continues, “but he never will.”

“Well, I will now,” Tony says loudly, leaning up so his mouth is an inch away from the mouthpiece. “It’s not his fault I never actually did more than glance at his stuff whenever you dragged me around showing it to me. I’m going to adorn the walls with it.”

“Tony,” Steve says, embarrassed, and Tony bites his shoulder. “Adorn,” he repeats, like a shoulder-biting idiot.

“Adorn,” Pepper says, and Steve can tell she’s smiling over the phone. “Right. Well, you are a welcome change to who Tony usually brought home.”

“Thank… you.”

“Thank you,” Tony yells, and Steve rolls onto his stomach so Tony can’t reach the mouthpiece.

Tony wriggles up to where Steve is lying, and they engage in a silent wrestling match to get to the phone, which Steve holds over his head. It’s just close enough so Steve hears Pepper say, “-was lovely talking to you, Steve Rogers.”

“You too,” Steve says, bringing it as close as he can without letting Tony near it. He bites down on a yelp when Tony starts tickling his ribs, and tries to bat Tony’s hands away with the hand that isn’t holding the phone.

“Please remind Tony he has a meeting in two days with the Japanese Ambassador,” Pepper continues, words Steve has only previously heard in a movie, and Steve blurts, “Yep, sure,” and then, “Goodbye,” when Pepper says it. He hangs up and throws the phone to the other side of the bed- it’s a very big bed, big enough for Steve and Tony and possibly five others- so he’s free to launch himself at Tony.

“No tickling,” Steve says, laughing along with Tony as he takes Tony’s hands and pins them on either side of his head. “Who tickles people who are on the  _phone_ , god.”

“Sorry,” Tony says, “so sorry,” sounding not sorry one bit, and Steve’s leaning in to kiss that smiling mouth again when his stomach makes itself heard again.

Steve groans in frustration and drops his head onto Tony’s shoulder.

“We  _were_  going to order in,” Tony points out, and Steve nods into his shoulder. “Phone distracted me. Then you distracted me.”

“ _So_  sorry,” Tony says, grinning like a cat, and Steve kisses him, keeping it short, before rolling over to grab Tony’s cellphone from where it’s tangled in the sheets.

 

 

 

They order Chinese, and manage to make it to the door when it arrives. Tony directs Steve through his house, which seems a lot bigger than it was when they were going to the basement and then to a guest bedroom.

“Put it on my account, thanks, Kels,” Tony says to the delivery girl, who smiles faintly and then glances over to Steve, eyebrows raised. Steve gives her a tight smile and a nod, wondering if a photo of this will be in a magazine later, and has seconds thoughts about walking around in jeans and nothing else.

Tony suggests TV, and Steve nods and they end up watching five episodes of Brooklyn Nine Nine, the food getting cold as they forget to eat it as they watch the episodes and talk. At several point they get into a good-natured debate that they pause the program for and argue for a while until one of them suggests they unpause the show, and the cycle continues.

Steve forfeits chopsticks for a fork and guffaws as Tony tries and fails to use the chopsticks they gave them.

“Just- just use a fork, jesus, they’re right there, they give them to the dumb Americans to use,” Steve chokes out as he watches Tony drop food on his shirt again. Tony had decided to wear the hoodie and sweatpants again, obviously not wanting to give the delivery girl a show of the scars on his chest.

Tony whines and settles for bringing up his carton too close to his mouth so he hardly has to lift the food, and pretty much ends up eating it straight out of the carton, no chopsticks needed, and Steve laughs until he’s bright red.

He stops eventually, wheezing, shoulder shaking. “I haven’t laughed that hard in ages,” he says honestly, because for some reason he feels safer here than he does in a therapy session, and god knows he’s been to a lot of those. There’s something about the darkening room, Rosa grinning on the screen in the background, the casual way Tony has tangled his legs with Steve’s on the couch.

Tony just shrugs, shovelling noodles into his mouth. “I should make you laugh like that more often,” he says, and pauses to chew. He swallows, and says, “You should- y’know, stick around. So I can do that. The making-you-laugh thing.” He looks down at his food as he says it.

Steve’s breath suddenly stings in his throat in a way that it hasn’t ever since he grew out of his asthma. He’s been hoping Tony is as enamoured as Steve is, that the last day and a half has been just as good for Tony as it has been for Steve, that he wants to keep seeing Steve as much as Steve wants to keep seeing Tony, which is an embarrassing amount.

Horrifyingly, Steve finds himself saying, “Sure, for as long as you’ll have me,” and Tony looks up and his lips part and they both forget about Brooklyn Nine Nine after that.

 

 

 

The second morning they wake up together, it’s in Tony’s house and Tony is snoring softly into Steve’s ear, better than a lullaby.

Tony wakes up when Steve gets out of bed this time, and sits up, his jaw cracking around a yawn.

“Not to say I wouldn’t love it if you walked around naked forever,” Tony says, and Steve’s heart leaps at _forever_ , “but you’ve been wearing those clothes for two days now.”

Steve looks down at the shirt he had been pulling on. He supposes it must stink now.

“You could borrow something of mine,” Tony tosses out, and Steve eyes Tony’s torso and tries to find a way to say it without sounding offensive.

“I have a couple of shirts that I got in the wrong size,” Tony says, smiling at Steve’s expression. “They’ll be a little snug, but they’ll do.”

Steve nods, says, “Thanks,” and goes to the drawer Tony is pointing at. He pulls out a sweatshirt, takes off his own shirt, and, snorting at Tony’s noise of appreciation, puts on the sweatshirt. It is snug, pulling tight across his pecs and arms, but it could be worse. “Thank you,” he says again, and turns around, pausing long enough that Tony says, “What?”

“I was thinking I could go for a run,” Steve says. “I usually do, before breakfast. I could come back after, we could eat together? It’s pretty early.”

“Yeah, sure, what time is- oh god, seven thirty,” Tony moans as he sees his cellphone. He waves his hand at Steve. “Go crazy, I have to work out some stuff on my tablet anyway. Apparently I’ve been slacking.”

“Sorry,” Steve says, catching the hint of Tony’s smile with his own mouth, bending down so he can kiss Tony properly.

Tony strokes a hand through Steve’s hair, maybe more fond than he should be of a person he’s known for two and a half days. “Worth it.”

 

 

 

Steve grins at the last thing Tony said to him all the way to his usual jogging route, which takes longer to get to since he started out from Tony’s.

It’s not long until he sees a familiar back up ahead, and he grins harder as he falls into step with Sam Wilson. “On your left.”

Sam groans like he always does, looking over at him. His eyes do a quick sweep up and down, and he chuckles. “Man, you look like you’re blazed out of your mind.”

“I’m not stoned, Sam,” Steve says. “Just- happy.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Sam snorts. “Happy pills, more like. How’s Stark? It is Tony Stark, right? The Tony Stark?”

“Yeah, it’s him.”

“Holy SHIT.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” Steve says, swerving to avoid stepping on a stubborn pigeon that refuses to move. He likes that about New York, even the pigeons are stubborn. “His assistant said she loved my work.”

“You do have fans on the up-high,” Sam nods, his breath coming heavier. “So, is Stark as good as the tabloids say?”

“I’m not talking about that with you.”

Sam butts their shoulders together. “Man, if you don’t talk about it with me, who are you gonna talk about it with? Bucky doesn’t come back for two months.”

“I’m not discussing my sex life with either of you,” Steve says, lips twitching, and Sam laughs triumphantly, even doing a little skip as they jog.

“My man’s got a sex life,” he crows, and Steve hisses at him to shut up. Sam is oblivious as he claps, whooping loudly and making several passerbys glance at them as they go past. “Took you long enough, man. Haven’t you guys both had a dry streak, what was it, four years?”

“Not talking about this with you,” Steve says, and picks up the pace a little so Sam has to yell at him and run faster.

“Are you dating,” Sam pants a while later, when they’re almost at the park. “Or is this just a Tony Stark thing? ‘Cause I don’t think he makes a habit of doing this sort of thing anymore, let alone keeping them for two days.”

“He didn’t keep me,” Steve says. “He isn’t keeping me.” The idea makes his chest twinge, not unpleasantly. He likes the sound of that, of Tony keeping him, or maybe Steve getting to keep Tony, or maybe, if they’re lucky, they’d get to keep each other. Steve knows it isn’t all going to be lying in bed or on the couch, having sex for half the time and talking the other half and somehow fitting all the other living stuff, but Steve thinks it might be nice, even if it’s only for a while.

Steve doesn’t think it is only for a while, though.

 

 

 

Tony rings Pepper and says, “So I might have fallen a little harder than I meant to.”

Pepper sighs. It’s a comforting sound. “Two days, Tony?”

“And a half,” Tony corrects. “I don’t know how many hours it’s been.” He’s lying. “He’s- I don’t even know how it happened, Pep, one second I was deciding what cereal to buy and the next I was tumbling into bed with an incredible stranger who I felt like I’ve known my whole life after I had been talking to him for an hour. It’s insane, Pep, this kind of shit doesn’t happen to me, I think he feels the same way, which is terrifying, oh my god. We watched TV for hours last night, and we kept losing what was happening on the show because we got caught up in talking, I hardly noticed how long it had been until I looked up and it was dark outside. And he’s- fuck, he’s great in bed, Pep-”

“Didn’t need to know, but still happy for you-”

“-but that’s only, like, a hundredth of what’s great about him, and I didn’t even know he existed last week, apart from those paintings I never looked at.” He leans his forehead on the bedframe. “This doesn’t happento me, Pep,” he admits softly. “I don’t- he’s so-”

“How about,” Pepper suggests, gentler than she would’ve been years ago, “you stop freaking yourself out and just see where this goes?”

Tony thinks that’s a good suggestion. He’s truly matured.

“I’ve truly matured,” Tony informs Pepper, who laughs louder than she should.

 

 

 

Steve comes back to Tony’s house when Tony’s mooching around the kitchen, and Tony stares as Steve drinks half a litre of orange juice in one go.

He makes a face after he’s done, screwing the cap back on. He twists the container, and then says, “Oh. Pulp.”

“Pulp is fantastic,” Tony says automatically, and then they’re arguing about the benefits of orange juice with pulp versus no pulp, which Tony thinks he’s winning until Steve says, “Tony,” and Tony says, “Yeah,” thinking Steve’s going to go off on another rant about the amazingness that is Non-Pulp, and then Steve says, “Our lives are going to go on and I’d really like to have you in mine after we have to go back to them. Our lives. Is what I mean.”

Tony stops, his prepared speech about pulp going out of his mind.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Steve says, hand scraping through his hair like he’s trying to pull it out, “I’d like to keep seeing you after we have to actually get out of bed and do things again. If you want.”

Tony blinks a few times, tries to think of what the mature thing to do would be before remembering he’s in a hoodie and sweatpants he’s been wearing for three days and is eating cereal that is aimed at kids seven or under.

“That’d be- good,” Tony finds himself saying, and Steve looks less like he’s going to pass out, so Tony continues. “That’d be great, I’d like that. I’d really like that.”  
Steve nods, his smile a little like he’s got hit over the head but he’s happy about it for some reason. “Good. That’s good. I- good.”

He puts his hands on his hips, and Tony notices for the first time how sweaty he is. And how much he’s wearing Tony’s shirt, how much better it looks on Steve than it does on Tony. And how flushed Steve is from running.

“We don’t have to do the living, doing-things just right now, right,” Tony says, stepping closer. “We can do the bed thing for, what, another day?”

“Or two,” Steve nods some more, head bobbing like a maniac. Then he scowls. “No, you have a meeting tomorrow, Pepper told me to tell you.”

“Well,” Tony says, sliding his hand over the drawstrings of Steve’s pants, “I’ll tell her I distracted you enough that you forgot. Tragic accident. We’re both all torn up about it.”

“So very sad,” Steve says, and Tony stops him nodding by pulling him down for a kiss.

 

 

 

Pepper calls around eight in the morning the next day, and Tony rubs his face into Steve’s bare chest as Pepper yells down the phone at him.

“Sorry, Miss Potts,” Steve says when Tony hands the phone to him.

“I’m the absolute opposite of sorry,” Tony says. “Whatever the opposite of sorry is, I’m the personification of it-”

“Shush,” Steve says, and tries to shift away so Tony can’t get close to the phone, which ends up in another tickle war as Pepper warns Tony that if he has sex while on the phone to her, he owes her half a million dollars.

**Author's Note:**

> here's my [tumblr](http://theappleppielifestyle.tumblr.com/).
> 
> (it's late. I should sleep. Guh. Hope you like this!)


End file.
